Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“What were the stakes again on this wager with Jack Jennings?”
“If I lose—or find myself in a relationship—I have to book them a suite at the stadium for the Super Bowl.”
Er. “That sounds easy enough.”
“It would probably cost me more than one-hundred thousand dollars.”
Ouch.
Also. He has that kind of money?
Damn.
I knew the players were rich, but their agents?
I’m totally in the wrong business. Maybe I should take Mr. Wallace up on his offer to do more career management. Boss him around as a side hustle, make a cheap buck or two.
“What do you get if you win?”
“The keys to their house in Turks and Caicos.”
Holy shit. These people with money don’t fuck around. When my family makes a bet, usually it's to see who has to cook dinner the next night, or the loser has to take the trash to the curb for an entire week. We’re not betting on keys to vacation homes and hundred-thousand-dollar rooms to watch a football game for one night.
“How will they know if you win or not? Can’t you just lie?”
He shrugs. “One, I’m a horrible liar. Two, as my client, I’m contractually obligated to disclose all information to him. This is personal, but considering we made a bet and shook on it, I would consider it a verbal and written contract. Penelope has the screenshots to prove it.” He laughs good-naturedly.
“Either way, those are some stakes.” I give him a sidelong glance, my eyes half on the runway in front of us. “Do you even care about either of those things?”
Another shrug. “Not really.”
“You’re just what. Bored?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Alright. As long as you’re honest, I can live with that.” I tip my head back and look up at the sky. The stars aren’t easily visible given the lights from the nearby city and the runway landing strips, but several of the fighters are peeking through. “So where do we start?”
“I have a picnic to attend this upcoming weekend. One of my clients is a jockey, and he’s got a race in Kentucky. You game?”
“Kentucky? You mean like—we’d have to fly there?”
“Uh. I’m not driving.”
My head gives a shake. “I’m just clarifying. I thought you were going to say you had a picnic at like, a park. One that’s in town.”
“My clients are scattered around the world. Technically, he’s with another agent, but I own the place, and Aaron’s wife is scheduled to have a C-section the night before, so I’m filling in.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“That’s the job. These people need hand holding—the bigger the contract, the more money they make. The more money they make, the more money we make. I have a handful of clients who aren’t happy with the percentage paid out to ECG; showing up helps smooth ruffled feathers.”
That makes sense. “I wouldn’t want to give you fifteen percent, either.”
“We don’t just push paper around on desks. We work our asses off.”
I stretch my legs out in front of me. “Hence the reason you’re sitting on the back of your car at the airport on a Saturday night.”
“Yup.”
No rest for the weary.
“Alright. I can do Kentucky next weekend.”
Eli turns to face me. “You’re going to need a fascinator for where we’re going.”
“A what?”
He laughs. “Google it.”
ten
eli
The picnic—otherwise known as a garden party at the racetrack—is in full swing by the time Molly and I arrive. She’s pulling at the cute, flowery hat stuck to the top of her head, grumbling when her high heel catches in the sidewalk.
I manage to grab her elbow in time, catching her before she falls.
“Thank you.” Tipping her head up, she’s smiling at me when I half expected her to gnash her little teeth. “My hero.”
Okay. That has me rolling my eyes. “You couldn’t have left out the sarcasm, hey?”
At the door, we flash my credentials, and security lets us through where celebrities enter. Celebrities, horse people, high rollers, aristocracy. I myself am wearing a suit, and it’s the middle of the goddamn day, all to pay respects to Alejandro Ramos.
Congratulate him on a lucrative and successful season.
Stave off the society women and hangers-on that frequent gatherings like this. They’ll be upstairs in the suite and all over town, waiting and watching for expensive men whose eyes they’re hoping to catch.
I will not be one of them.
Not today.
Not with Molly at my side, ready as my fake girlfriend slash wingwoman.
Bold and sassy, Molly has already shot the death glare at several women who probably haven’t even deserved it, but hey—never hurts to practice, amiright?
“I have no idea why I'm even here,” she grumbles again, her little rear swinging as she precedes me up the stairs to the second level where the club-level suites are.
“We're just here to show our faces, and then we can head out,” I lie. It’s going to take longer than a few minutes, but she certainly doesn’t need to know that.